


Neon Soul

by soul_of_spades



Series: Neon Soaked [2]
Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Torture, a bit of a slow burn, because Maka has blinders on, please excuse my cheesy cyberpunk tech and rationale, think Blade Runner or Altered Carbon with a Soul Eater twist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25114129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soul_of_spades/pseuds/soul_of_spades
Summary: In the neon soaked streets of Death City, weapon-wielding freelancers are tasked with hunting down Kishin - lost souls who overindulge in bodily enhancement technology and lose touch with their humanity. Now, six months after nearly losing Soul on a job, Maka is finally closing in on the strange Kishin responsible for causing her so much grief. Natually, she uncovers an evil plot along the way.Cyberpunk AU inspired by Blade Runner and Altered Carbon.Continuation of Neon Soaked. Part 1 is included here as a prologue for continuity.
Relationships: Black Star/Death the Kid, Maka Albarn/Soul Eater Evans, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Neon Soaked [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1826149
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my continuation to my Chibi!Reverb 2020 submission! In other words, my original plan that's bound to hit 30k at this rate (because "small plot" does not compute for me). So for those of you who enjoyed Neon Soaked, here's the beginning of the rest I promised ya.
> 
> If you've read Neon Soaked, you can skip this first chapter - it's literally just that story acting as a prologue for the sake of coherence. 
> 
> Oh, and please admire my talented partner Snowyart4's INCREDIBLY SEXY art. You can check out the comic for the story's opening scene and some wicked cool concept art [ here.](https://neonsoaked.carrd.co/)

When day fades away into night, and the dark clouds above spill their polluted tears over Death City, Maka finds herself marveling at the neon soaking the streets she’s called home the past twenty years.

She stands on a balcony far below the city’s skyline—where the wealthy reside and drink to their empire’s health—but high enough to have a bird’s eye view on the city’s underbelly—where the real people live, underneath all the lights and the noise. As always, the ground-level streets are buzzing with activity; full of nocturnal travelers, street vendors, children playing past curfew, and holos running the same ads repeatedly, advertising the next “big thing” in bodily enhancements.

A holo speaks seductively over a loudspeaker: _“Why feel trapped inside a body that doesn’t serve you, when you can have so much more. Upgrade today!”_

Maka leans forward against the railing, pursing her lips. Even if her own body isn’t upgrade-free, she knows better than to fall for such two-faced rhetoric. Hers aren’t a selfish indulgence. They keep her alive, combat-ready. And they’re certainly not a product of corporate greed, either. More like, she inwardly cringes, a mad scientist’s side project. 

From the corner of her eye, she watches young fleshies—or, as BlackStar calls them, _upgrade virgins_ —line up to gawk at storefronts, drooling over upgrades they’ll work the rest of their lives trying to afford. Gorgon Industries’ upgrades. The flashy kind that promise things like unlimited net access, good looks, new skills, super strength, a higher IQ, a sharper memory, a breath of immortality. Anything you want if your pockets are deep enough. Bio _superiority_ , it advertises. As if being remotely human is the problem.

Her lips dip into a frown.

The phrase "pull yourself up by your own bootstraps" has really lost its edge in a world so adamant about running away from its problems. People rely so heavily on tech these days, it’s a wonder how civilization survived before upgrade manufacturers like Gorgon Industries arrived on the scene with Arachne Gorgon leading the charge; her silver-tongue promising a better, more advanced future by merging humankind with technology. 

_“Don’t trust the Gorgons, no matter what people say,”_ a voice whispers in her head, oddly familiar, but she can’t place it. Its message, though, lights a fire in her blood.

She curls her gloved fingers into a fist. Maka Albarn, codename freelancer _Angel of Death_ , with one hell of a chip on her shoulder, would rather die than feed into that corporate she-devil’s inflated ego and biosuperior _bullshit—_

“You’re monologuing again.” His deep, lightly scolding voice is enough to pull her out of her thoughts with a jolt. He joins her by the railing, quirking a pale brow at her surprised look. “You do this all the time. Seriously. Getting stuck in your head like that is so uncool.”

She pouts, drawing her hood closer to her rose-tinted cheeks. “I was not.” 

“We’re resonating, Maka.” He taps the small, round device on his temple—the tether that binds them—tucked underneath his messy white hair. The blue light at its center blinks to a steady rhythm that she can only assume her own device is mimicking. “So, ‘tie your own bootstraps’ or whatever. You always piss and moan when you think I’m not on task. What happened to practicing what you preach?” 

Her partner is well-versed in the ways of pushing her buttons, but eavesdropping on her thoughts while her guard is down? Low blow. 

She shoots him a pointed look and he just gives her a lopsided smile in return, teasing. He can only make out some words and phrases here and there through their resLink, but still—that’s reserved for battle when she doesn’t have time to talk things out with him. It’s not for making fun of your partner.

“You’re such an ass, Soul.”

He shrugs—in typical _I’m too cool for this_ fashion—and pulls his obnoxious aviator-style goggles over his eyes to scan the crowded streets below. The lenses surf the net and grant his sight one hell of an upgrade, much like Stein’s custom cornea implants do for her, but with less finesse, in her opinion. His is outdated tech with a choppy interface. Hasn’t been seen on the market in years. And despite having the same implants as her, Soul insists on using the goggles because they look _“cool”._ Image over functionality. Textbook Soul. 

In Maka’s eyes, the goggles look ridiculous, but she humors him and all his quirks because this boy is her best friend, the unspoken keeper of her heart, and he nearly died for her six months ago. 

The memory still stings. She visibly winces, tucking the hood closer to her face, praying Soul doesn’t see. The last thing she needs is for him to pry at her thoughts. If he catches wind of her thinking about that day, he’ll give her the pity-induced stare paired with the _I made a choice, it’s not your fault_ speech. The one that makes her want to puke. Though judging by the way his tongue sticks out at the corner of his mouth in intense focus, Maka is in the clear. She sighs, relieved. 

Time supposedly heals all wounds, but not this one. Not that one, she thinks sadly, side-eyeing her partner. She imagines the scar cleaving his chest in two just underneath the fabric of his shirt. Tearing him apart right in front of her, soaking her hands in red, in him. 

Her breath hitches in her throat. 

It was a miracle that Stein was able to piece him back together again. Though, his cigarette-tinged words as she stood over Soul’s bed as he laid there, unconscious, aren’t lost on her.

_“Next time he might not be so lucky.”_

Except there won’t be a next time because Soul will never get hurt like that again. Not if she has anything to say about it.

“Got him.”

She tilts her head at him, glad for the interruption this time. “You’re sure it’s him?”

“Yeah,” he says, pushing the goggles back into his hairline. “My sight’s not superhuman like yours, but the signature reading is undeniable. It’s like a virus, y’know?” She does. Corrupted tech emits a distorted signal. His goggles and her implants have been specially modified to track it. “But honestly, this guy is all over the place. You’d have to be blind not to notice him.”

“He’s gone feral.” 

Soul hums in agreement.

If there’s one thing she’s learned over the years, it’s that upgrades are god-sent until they’re not. Upgrading too much, past the legal limit, is like reaching the point of no return, losing everything that once made you who you are. You lose touch with your humanity. Corrupt, power-hungry, and dangerously unhinged with no soul to guide you—a Kishin.

And above all else, you are put on the _Angel of Death’s_ list to be reaped. 

She jumps on top of the railing, careful not to lose her balance. The toes of her combat boots skirt the edge.

“Maka?” His voice sounds pinched with concern. If she stays eerily silent like this for too long, he might grow suspicious and take a peek through their link. 

She holds out her hand. “You ready to kick some Kishin ass, Soul Eater?”

For a split second, he looks taken aback by her words. Then, with a quick shake of his head and a small chuckle, he shoots her a grin. “Always.”

On cue, he transforms from man to scythe, flashing in sequences of code beyond her understanding before turning solid, heavy, until they’re synced up and he’s light enough to twirl between her fingers. His blade is polished, sharp. The base color is a blood red that glows faintly, with blue circuits and speckled code rippling across its face. Hiding underneath its sparkling data freckles and red shine, there’s a filmy black serrated shadow along the curve; like shark teeth, he joked. A living, breathing, bioengineered cybernetic weapon. 

She brings the blade closer to her face, matching his grin. “Time to go to work.”

Maka teeters on the edge and lets herself fall into the neon-painted night. 

* * *

  
  


Lucky for Maka, a fierce-looking woman holding a scythe as tall as her, sharp enough to cut through flesh and bone, is an effective way to open up a path through the crowd. 

People shriek in surprise and jump out of her way, wide-eyed. Some even whisper her codename under their breath once they recognize Soul’s scythe. The fleshies she saw earlier holler and pump their fists, because whether she likes it or not, her reputation as the freelancer _Angel of Death_ is supposedly legendary. Reaping lost souls is her specialty, and she is nothing if not a perfectionist. She’s on record for never missing her mark. 

Except one. The Kishin who gave Soul his scar. 

_“Kill the girl.”_

_“I… I don’t know how to deal with that.”_

She nearly wipes out trying to avoid some street merchant and his cart full of knock-off implants—adrenaline amplifiers, half-assed cornea implants, hearing aids, contraceptives, libido lifts. Soul’s blade takes a nosedive, clattering hard against the pavement. She can already hear his whining about her dropping him so carelessly. Except, she doesn’t care, can’t care because she isn’t here, there, wherever. She is sling-shotting between the past and the present. 

Those voices throw off her entire rhythm, playing like a broken record inside her head, the needle skipping. One condescending, the other so small, belittled, but both originating from the same body. A body strong enough to paralyze her with fear and rip open Soul’s chest. And instead of killing her, they leave her there, swimming in her partner’s blood, sobbing for mercy.

So _weak_.

Maka finds her footing again, grabbing her scythe and darting away with nothing more than a skinned knee and a crotchety merchant yelling profanity at her back. 

“Hey, are you good?”

She shakes the ghosts out of her head. “Fine. Which way?”

“If you say so.” His voice is metallic, staticky, and definitely unconvinced as it echoes through their resLink. “Make a left here!”

Her boots pivot hard on the cracked asphalt. She turns quickly down an alleyway and runs straight through an exotic dancer holo that winks at her horror and short-lived blindness. She yelps in surprise, blushing furiously—her face phased through the holo lady’s boobs! The holo giggles as she leans her weapon partner against a brick wall to rub the sting out of her eyes. When her sight comes back, the hardly dressed, well-endowed woman blows her a kiss. 

“Gah, Soul!” she grits out, flustered. She picks him up and glares daggers at the hilt’s red eye. “You jerk.” 

“What? How was I s’posed to know she was there?” His tone is defensive, accusing, and, dare she say, slightly amused.

“ _Goggles_.” 

“Oh.” While he chews on what to say next, Maka imagines his face: eyes avoiding her, mouth pinched in a grimace. His guilty face. “Well, the sight’s a little glitchy.” 

Of course it is, because it’s _old,_ she is ready to tell him.

“Spare me the lecture you’re obviously about to give me,” he says, cutting her off. She silently fumes. “We’ve got a job to do, yeah? Let’s stay focused.”

Maka sighs, still a little miffed. “You’re right.” Her eyes follow the length of the alleyway; it’s sparse, no foot traffic. “We’ll use my sight. There’s no crowd here.” Nobody can get in her way and offer themselves up as collateral damage. “I can focus on locating the Kishin’s signature and follow it at the same time.”

“Pfft, show off,” Soul replies, no ill feelings attached. He understands that her sight is better than his: even if he did decide to swap out his glitchy fashion statement for his implants, it still wouldn’t compare to hers. 

Maka has a gift of sight that stretches beyond the scope of her implants. She sees or senses what others cannot. Personalities, intentions, fears, dreams. Stein speculates that she has a secret talent for reading souls, baffling her, while she jokingly calls it women's intuition. But in all seriousness, she can’t explain why her sight is so intense or even how it works. It just… _is._ Always has been, for as long as she can remember. 

_“I know you’ll keep it safe,”_ the voice from earlier whispers, echoes, and in her head Maka reaches out to find where it’s coming from, who it belongs to. As always, though, she comes up empty-handed.

“You’re zoning out again.”

“It’s called multitasking, Soul,” she bites out, trying to remember where she left off in their conversation. “Should try it some time.”

“Nah,” he says cheekily. “I’ll leave all the heavy lifting to you, Angel.”

She is not blushing. That nickname does _not_ tug at her heartstrings. “Lazy.” 

No verbal response. But she knows his answer. In that plane of existence where his consciousness exists out of sight, between cybernetic code and matter, he just shrugs nonchalantly at her. 

Maka huffs and redirects her attention to her sight. Her eyes trail down the alley again, only they push far beyond the boundaries of average human visual perception. She keeps pushing, testing her limits. Tiny blue orbs manifest by the dozens, no, _hundreds._ Before the whole city can pile drive her mind into a coma, she adjusts her sight to focus solely on erratic, unhinged behavior, like what Soul observed earlier. 

_Almost there._

Her head is pounding now. Straining her sight like this can be draining, painful. Once her search radius hits about five miles, her vision begins to blur. 

“Maka?” He sounds worried. “Stop trying to flex. You’re hurting yourself.” 

A red orb catches her eye. “Found him!” She smiles triumphantly, wiping the sweat from her brow. “I’m locked on, and ready to track this bastard down.”

There’s a sigh of relief over their link. “Sounds like a plan.” In her head, he’s giving her his signature grin. All sharp teeth and molten red eyes. Not to mention the dimples he swears he doesn’t have—

“Sweetie, what’s wrong? Don’t like what you see? I can be whatever you want~” the holo sing-songs next to her ear, its fluorescent hand lightly caressing her shoulder. Maka freezes at its false touch, how it lights a spark under her skin. No, no, no, no. She can feel it reformulating its shape to fit her darkest desires. Its pleasure programming is intuitive, invasive. It preys on any suggestive thoughts it can find: sexual preferences, turn-on's, hormones, all through touch. Even if you’ve never been into, well, _sex_ —she cringes—it weasels its way in and finds an alternative. And boy, does it thrive on unrequited feelings. 

The second Maka gets a glimpse of _his_ smile over her shoulder, she shrieks and bolts down the alley like she has thrusters for feet. 

She hears Soul chuckle heartily through their link, completely oblivious, calling her a prude. Is it really him, or the holo? Her mind is too scrambled, too violated to tell the difference. Her face burns crimson as his laugh chases her away.

* * *

  
  


Maka does eventually stop to catch her breath, figuring the holo has long since eaten her dust. The ghost of his smile is, well, just that: a ghost. It doesn’t mean anything. Her heart flutters in her chest. It doesn’t change anything.

Focus, Maka, _focus._

Above her, neon lights shine through the downpour, reflecting wildly off the wet pavement, and illuminate her figure in reds, pinks, blues, greens, and purples. The colorful spectacle doesn’t quite fit her surroundings, though; it spotlights stacked, rusted-out housing units blossoming haphazardly out of a beaten dirt path—a poorer district, one overshadowed by, quite literally, the upper class’s vulgar materialism.

Gotta love capitalism, she thinks, scowling.

“I was just joking, y’know,” Soul says quietly, mistaking her silence for anger. “Sorry. Not cool.”

“It’s fine.” Is it? Because the way her gut twists at his blind apology tells a different story. 

She inwardly groans. This is all her fault. Their partnership was born out of mutual respect, from a pact to hunt down Kishin before they could hurt innocent people, and somewhere along the way the lines between professional partnership and friendship and something more blurred on her end; on his end, too, but he stopped at best friend. It’s not his fault her heart aches for more.

“Is that your final answer?” The small twinge she feels through their link only states the obvious: her partner is growing irritated with her short, inherently false answers. 

Maka decides to give in a smidge to appease him, but not with the whole truth. More like a believable lie. “The holo hit a little close to home. Reminded me too much of Papa.”

Their link stays eerily silent for what feels like an eternity. Sweat trickles down her brow. Her heart hammers in her chest. Does he know? Or did dropping her father’s philandering exploits into their conversation like an atomic bomb really work? 

“Your old man is such a pain,” he finally says. 

She nods numbly. It worked. She can live to fight another day.

“So,” he says, drawing out the ‘o’ to clear the air. His blatant dismissal of all things her father-related is oddly endearing. “Where are we, anyway? All this neon is giving me a headache.”

Maka blinks, slowly. Once. Twice. She chews thoughtfully on her bottom lip. How does one admit to their partner that, in her mad dash to avoid an awkward confrontation, she abandoned all sense of direction and followed her sight blindly? 

“You don’t know, do you?”

“Hold on,” she mutters. Her implants glow faintly, tiny digital mechanisms adjusting her pupils to see past the flashing lights. “I’ll fix this.” 

He groans. “Maka.”

She tries to drown out his whiny tone, catching only bits and pieces of his long list of complaints. Focus, focus. _“How can someone so smart—”_ Her sight sifts through the area, tracking that dark, impulsive aura she felt earlier: the red orb. _“—be so dumb.”_ Her eye twitches. Distracted, she sends a sharp ‘shut up’ through their link. He scoffs but obeys, frustratingly compliant.

And that’s when the red orb blinds her. 

“Agh!” Maka falls to one knee, her weapon-free hand clutching her head.

“Maka!” His worry pulses through their link. “What was that? Are you okay? Answer me!”

“We’re not alone,” is all she says. But, to answer his question, her sight rebounded, painfully, because her target was a lot closer than she anticipated. 

“You lying snake,” a gargled voice calls from above. She looks up and squints against the multicolored glare. A ghastly silhouette stands in front of a billboard screen, which plays a PSA on illegal upgrading, ironically enough. Where its chest is, the red orb floats idly, radiating waves of blood lust.

Maka jumps into a battle stance. Her fingers coil tightly around her scythe. 

“Get ready,” Soul says. She nods. Then, the Kishin climbs down, unit by unit, and reveals itself.

What once was human is gone, deformed, looking almost bird-like: a short, chubby torso; stretched out, knobby limbs; and a pale mask with an opening for its sharp, crooked nose. Its skin is a dull grey, void of any flush or proof of life. It has steel claws for fingers. As it looks down at her, toes curling over a sputtering gutter, it licks its lips with a long, dexterous tongue. 

“Snake!”

“Jack.” She uses his human name, the one written in her job contract, but doubts he recognizes it. “You’re charged with illegal upgrading, on ten counts.” That’s supposedly how many upgrades he went over the legal limit, but that number doesn’t seem to fit the creature looming over her. “You’re not human anymore. And as the _Angel of Death,_ it’s my job to retire you before you hurt somebody.”

Jack growls, posing to strike. His tongue now hides behind serrated teeth. 

“I don’t like this,” Soul chimes in through their link. “What kind of tech does that to a person?”

His upgrades have disfigured his body into something grotesque, inhuman. Illegal upgrading doesn’t normally cause this level of extreme transformation or insatiable blood lust, and the distorted signal she’s sensing from his tech is like nothing she’s ever felt before. At least, not from the average Kishin.

For years, Maka’s faced Kishin that’ve retained at least a trace of their human identity, whether in mind or in body. They’re monstrous, impulsive, and (in rare cases) even tactical, conniving, but their lust for something more, their overindulgence in upgrade technology—that is the source of their power, their madness. And even if they can get a grip on the humanity they’ve lost—try to blend in with society, so to speak—that craving for more will never leave them; it’ll always lead them astray, to the _Angel of Death_ and other freelancers like her.

But Jack’s fall from grace is different than the average Kishin. The technology that ruined him carries a dangerous secret beyond that of illegal upgrading, and there have been others like him, too—harboring a secret in their makeup, their past selves erased in corruption, twisted and malformed. 

A secret she’s been tracking for six months now.

“Give them back!” he cries. His mangled speech is hysterical. Strange, because a Kishin this far gone usually can’t express strong emotion like this, not unless a residual of his human consciousness still remains intact. Holding onto something. Which begs the question: what, or who could he be talking about? 

Curiosity gets the better of her. “Give what back, Jack?”

“You said they’d come back, you promised!” He bangs a clawed fist in the beat of his words. “Alive, alive, alive!” 

“Maka,” Soul warns. 

She ignores him and searches her mind for Jack’s job contract for any relevant background information. Then, it hits her. “Are you talking about your wife and son?” They died in a hovercraft accident. Drunk driver. “Are they who you want?” 

Jack doesn’t answer. 

“Can you tell me who did this to you?” She really, really wants to know. Because whoever did this must have something to do with the Kishin who hurt Soul. The blood lust she feels, it is nearly the same. Just less fractured. “You can talk to me, Jack.” 

“What the hell are you doing, Maka?”

She twists the proverbial knife in his chest. “If you tell me who’s responsible, I can help you see your family again.”

“Lying snake!”

His breakneck speed was _not_ in his file. Honed talons tear into her shoulder, just a hair off from cutting her throat. She’d be dead if not for muscle memory guiding her to dodge at the last second. 

“Maka!” 

She clamps a hand on her shoulder, biting down a yelp. Blood leaks steadily through her fingers. It’s deep, but manageable. Nothing a fuse pen can’t fix. With a cordial squeeze— _son of a bitch, that hurts_ —Maka turns to face her attacker, clutching her scythe in both hands. Jack stands opposite of her, deathly still, as if he didn’t just launch at her like a freakin’ torpedo. 

“I’ll live,” she says, answering before he can ask. “Just a scratch.”

“You’re bleeding.” _Thank you, captain obvious._ “Shit. You just had to provoke him, didn’t you? You’re so stupid!”

“Not helping, Soul. Kind of in the middle of something here.” 

When Jack charges again, Soul yells, “Dodge, Maka!”

But her opponent moves too fast for her to dodge, so she quickly settles on blocking incoming claws with her scythe’s steel handle instead. The harsh clang echoes up her arms, but she comes out of it mostly unscathed. Her shoulder groans, spitting blood, but she can deal. She isn’t weak. Maka grins, high on adrenaline. Using all her strength, she pushes back, shoving him away, giving her room to swing. 

“All you do is lie! Lie, lie, lie!” 

“Jack, who did this to you!” She can end this now. Her arms cut back, locked and loaded, ready to deliver a devastating blow. 

“Die, snake!” Jack roars, raising his gangly arm over his head. He aims to slash her in half. 

Maka sees her opening but hesitates. He knows. He can help her find the Kishin who haunts her dreams. His maker is _their_ maker, the owner of the voices. If only she had more time to reach him. Maybe, if she—

Soul’s scream snaps her out of it. “Do it, Maka!” 

The blood curdling fear of him swapping steel for flesh compels her to act. She swings his blade in a high arc that cuts cleanly through other flesh, bone, and metal in one fell swoop.

In a flash, she is watching Soul’s back, witnessing before—her partner’s chest on the chopping block, ready to be split in two. Then, it disappears, and it’s Jack’s chest eating her blade, not Soul. _Never again Soul._ Once that thought finally sinks in, Maka visibly relaxes.

“Your soul—” she yanks out the blade— “is mine, Jack. You’re officially retired.”

Jack collapses the second the tip of the blade is drawn from his chest, leaving a familiar, gaping wound behind. Maka stares blankly into its abyss.

With the threat neutralized, Soul flashes out of her grip in a trail of light. He materializes back into his body, all lean muscle, poor posture, and hands buried deep inside his jacket pockets.

His eyes immediately land on her shoulder, scrutinizing, as if it’s his duty to play weapon _and_ part-time medic; he’d likely argue the latter is because she’s reckless and injury prone, all hero complex and no self-preservation. A scary combination, he says. She calls it doing her job.

He frowns at her cloak sleeve as it leaks droplets of red onto the dirt. Maka just shrugs at him, suppressing a wince. He facepalms. Through their link, she hears one delicately drawn-out word: _idiot_. 

Jack’s death isn’t slow, but it doesn’t happen fast, either. He writhes around in a puddle of his own blood, cackling. High on death. Then, the dust settles, his breathing turns into wheezing, and that blood lust just evaporates into thin air. A streak of black stains the gore surrounding him before the rain washes it away. The red orb disappears. 

“I just… wanted to…” are his last words to her. Not the name of the person who destroyed him, but half of a dying wish. His only wish. A glimpse of his humanity that refused to die. 

As Soul unceremoniously pulls the ID chip out of his nape, Maka can’t help but give the poor guy a proper send-off.

“See my family again,” she finishes for him. A eulogy fit for a tormented soul who saw nothing but snakes and the ghosts of those he lost until the bitter end.

“You okay?” Soul asks, securing the chip in his jacket pocket.

 _No,_ her mind whispers, begging to spill the truth. To finally admit that this mission is more than just a job, and more than just a footnote in this Kishin “anomaly” she’s been obsessively tracking.

It’s about finding the Kishin that gave him his scar.

“I’m fine.”

Six months, and he’s followed her blindly, always assuming her motives cross with her inability to leave well enough alone—her hero complex, he'd say. If only he knew that she secretly carries a torch for vengeance, and another for redemption. Hardly hero-esque.

He hums, pretending like her answer holds any truth. “You’re not gonna believe this, but, uh… we—and when I say we, I mean _you_ —forgot to pack the fuse pen.”

Her wry laugh is drowned out by the rain as it pours and splashes into puddles of neon. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I divvied up what I've written so far a little differently to make this chapter longer, just as a treat. Since it took a while for me to post. I'm tentatively saying there will be two more behemoth chapters but stay tuned.

Maka hates public transit, hates being cooped up in tight spaces with strangers, and, most of all, _hates_ being coddled by her mother hen of a partner.

Soul half-carries her onto the busy station platform, and then he drags her onto the monorail: a slick, metal beast that hangs by nothing more than a tight electric grip at the base of the track above it. With the ability to reach speeds of 300mph in the blink of an eye, she dubs it more bullet than train. But her hatred can’t be chalked up to fear like claustrophobia or heights. No, it’s because it attracts an iffy crowd with its price tag—mid-city, white collar suburban folks, itching to claw their way to the top, unafraid of who they step on to get there. Decidedly _not_ her kind of people. 

Her weapon slings one arm around her waist, encouraging her to lean on him; her own arm is up and over his shoulders for support. As if she needs it. Truth is, she can carry her own weight, but he insists on parading her around like some kind of helpless damsel. 

“Easy there, killer,” he says wryly. “We’re trying to blend in, remember? No drawing attention to ourselves… the usual.” He gently pinches her cheek as if to scold her. “So quit looking at people like you want to bite their heads off.”

 _Blend in?_ What is she, a blubbering drunk with two left feet and no color in her face? And who is he, her chivalrous, overprotective boyfriend who’s trying to get her home safely? Yeah, _no._

She swats his hand away. “I hate the monorail. You _know_ I hate it, but noooo, I’m too ‘frail’ to ride the bike. I’ll get light-headed and fall off, you said, or—better yet—the breeze will just blow me right off and I’ll fly away like I’m made of paper.” 

“Wow,” he says, dragging the vowel out sarcastically, “someone’s bitter.” 

Maka tries scowling harder out of spite.

What did he expect? She’s tired, injured, and more than a little frustrated with how their latest mission played out. Jack, the mastermind behind his fall into madness, the ghosts whispering in her head, her aching shoulder, _everything_ —it all got away from her.

Sure, they got the job done, but why does she feel like she has nothing to show for it? No answers, only more questions. She failed to collect any new intel on the Kishin anomaly. Failed to get a name. And is nowhere near closer to finding _the_ Kishin after six months of searching. So yes, she _is_ bitter. 

_Stupid, stupid girl,_ one of the voices in her head says. The one that speaks foully with no remorse, dripping with cold-blooded arrogance. The stronger half that drew the black sword and sliced Soul’s chest in half. She shudders at the memory.

The monorail suddenly darts out of the station, catching her by surprise, but, as always, Soul is there to catch her. Always acting as her anchor. He carefully guides her to an open seat, and she plops down into it, crossing her arms defiantly. She’s hit instantly with regret as her freshly torn skin opens its gory mouth on her shoulder. Luckily, it’s packed tight with gauze, otherwise it’d start bleeding again. Doesn’t make it any less painful, though.

She really, _really_ wishes she hadn’t forgotten to bring a damn fuse pen. 

“It hurts… doesn’t it?”

Maka bites her lip and looks away.

As if on cue, they’re interrupted by the mechanical hum of shutters beginning to wane as the monorail’s interior walls and ceiling fade into complete transparency. The city engulfs their surroundings; like traveling inside a giant bubble, she thinks, except these windows are one-sided, tinted—passengers could see out, but nobody could look in. Maka is just thankful that the floor is still solid and dirty beneath her feet.

Above her, someone coughs. Her eyes follow the sound and wander leisurely into a trap: a staring contest with her partner. They say eyes are windows to the soul—well, his eyes remind her of gemstones, as in polished, regal, sharp, and, in his case, blood-red; and it’s as if they have their own gravitational pull, drawing Maka in like a moth to a flame. It’s only when she reads his heartfelt concern and his frustration, that she breaks eye contact. Stubborn bravado be damned.

 _Can he read her, too?_ she wonders.

“Look,” he starts, “once the adrenaline wears off, you’ll thank me. You lost a decent amount of blood. Even if you don’t feel it now, you will. Or maybe you already do.” He looks down at her, a crease nestling between his brow, and sighs. “I’m only trying to help. S’not weak to rely on people, y’know.”

At his words, Maka wilts a little. He’s the last person she wants to hurt or drag into her mess, her failures. To take all her frustrations out on Soul isn’t fair. He doesn’t deserve it—and, in all honesty, she doesn’t deserve him. Not his friendship, his concern, his loyalty, his kindness, or his dimpled smile. Least of all, their partnership. He is, in every way, out of her league; too good to her, too good _for_ her. 

Focus, Maka, _focus._

She swallows her pride and shoves down her guilt. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah, save it,” he says dismissively, trying to hide his little half-smile. “We’ve still got a lot to talk about.” _But not here_ , he implies. Maka nods solemnly. As if Soul would ever let her off the hook for trying to have a conversation—no, an interrogation—with a Kishin in the middle of a fight.

“Anyway, I’m gonna go look for the dining cart. I read somewhere that Vitamin C helps with blood loss, so,” he pauses, scratching behind his ear, “just stay here, I guess? As in don’t move. Or do anything stupid. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” she mock-salutes. 

Soul snorts, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “Look at you, so obedient. So… full of shit _._ ” His hand lunges for her, ruffling up her hair. She makes a noise in the back of her throat—something between a growl and a squeak—and, to her chagrin, he’s out of her reach before she can retaliate, a smirk tugging on his lips. 

“Stay,” he tacks on, making a ridiculous gesture with his fingers as if to say _I’ve got my eye on you_ as he slowly disappears down the crowded aisle. Maka makes a point of flipping him off as he walks away, smiling fondly when he returns the favor; her smugness must’ve bled through their link. 

Of course, it only makes sense that the moment he’s out of her sight and their link disconnects, everything goes to shit. 

_Lying snake_.

Maka stiffens, her vision swirling, before she jerks forward in her seat as the monorail squeals to a stop. A little ding, and the doors slide open. She watches people shuffle on and off, all lost in their own worlds, while her own blurs in and out of focus. Their moving bodies leave streaks of light in their wake, showing echoes of where they once were and where they’re going. She tries to blink it away, but it doesn’t work, nothing works. Her breathing shallows.

She is no stranger to blood loss; in her line of work, it’s an occupational hazard. Her adrenaline reserves normally counteract the effects and give her time to find treatment, but this feels different. Her fatigue and dizziness are being amplified. And she can feel it trickling—whatever _it_ is—into her implants, distorting her sight. She rubs, rubs, rubs against her eyelids, but the feeling, the _poison_ inside her, doesn’t let her go. If anything, it puts her in a choke hold. 

_Stupid, stupid girl._

Maka coughs into her hand, blinking blearily at what she leaves behind. _Black… blood?_

Her implants flicker off. 

“Fascinating,” someone says, as if next to her and far away at the same time. “So it can be transferred between hosts.”

Maka jumps to her feet, her body tipping into the seats across the aisle. She awkwardly hugs the cushions and bumps other passengers, navigating like she’s blind—which, in hindsight, she is _._ Her implants are incapacitated. All she can see is a buffering loading screen, and beyond that: darkness, and even darker shadows in place of people. 

But she is not deaf. 

“You can feel it, can’t you? Coursing through your veins, turning your own body against you. Perhaps you should listen to what it has to say.”

Her body thrums to a steady, agonizing pulse. It whispers to her softly. Promising power, if only she’d just let go. She shakes her head, slowly, repeatedly. Because no, she will not give up, she will not lose control. She is not weak. She will never let Soul get hurt again. _Never again._

When Maka follows the voice and reaches out, her resolve set in stone, the fog suddenly begins to lift. The poison in her body releases its hold on her—no, it dies, like her blood is fire—and washes away like the rain. The heavy beat in her pulse silences. Her eyes are still hazy but recalibrating. She exhales sharply. 

The voice—a woman’s voice—sighs. “How disappointing.” Her words seem to drift away, mingling with the conversations of others. “I suppose the experiment is over… for now.” 

Is she… is she trying to leave? 

On a whim, Maka tries to tap into her sight, overwhelmed at first by the other passengers surrounding her—not to mention her own exhaustion—before she centers herself, pinpoints, and reaches out again _._ She still only sees shadows, but she can feel, perceive what others can’t. And, as her partner likes to do… _eavesdrop._

“Until next time, Ms. Albarn.” 

The voice leads her to an orb—no, a soul—that stands out against the ocean of others: twisted, devious, calculated, and ambitious. Her lust for power and control is palpable. But her cruelty… _that_ is embedded into the very fabric of who she is, sending a prickled chill down Maka’s spine. After careful evaluation, she decides this woman lacks empathy, feels no compassion, but is clever enough to mask it _._ She’s incapable of love. So, so cold. Like a…

_Snake._

Her soul perception melts away under the strain, and Maka’s left staring down a tunnel of people, not shadows. The monorail doors slide shut next to her. She blinks, adjusting, searching. But the voice and the soul it belongs to are gone. Her mastermind… Jack’s lying snake. 

_No, no, no, no._ She is ready to storm down the aisle when the monorail surges forward again, surprising her. Except this time there’s no one there to catch her when she falls. Her back hits the floor, hard. She groans, feeling what’s left of her dignity just seep out of her. Her body’s fight to expel the poison took more out of her than she thought. And, ah, there goes her consciousness, fizzling out. 

Ahead of her, she hears a familiar, drawn-out, _I’m so done_ sigh before her world fades to black. 

“I wasn’t even gone for _five_ minutes.”

* * *

When Maka regains consciousness, she isn’t on the monorail floor, or settled politely on a seat—no, she is lying flat against Soul’s back, his hands cradling under her knees, with her arms and head slumped over his shoulders. It’s long past their stop, and he’d been carrying her like this for four city blocks when she finally tells him that yes, she is awake, and no, she doesn’t need him to carry her anymore. She can walk, thanks.

He sets her down, hesitant, but yielding to her wishes. In no mood to pick a fight or play twenty questions, which she is grateful for. Grateful for him and his patience. He then offers her a juice pouch, rambling on about Vitamin-C, and she gladly takes it, no fuss.

And so, as they cut through a nightly street market with tiny lights on a circuit line flickering above them, hand in hand—a safety precaution, he insisted—she decides to tell him what happened. To shatter the illusion of her having pushed too hard or lost too much blood. She sucks idly on her juice pouch between every word, explaining how helpless she felt, the woman’s voice, everything. Well, everything except the snake woman’s potential connection to the Kishin who hurt him. That, she keeps close to her chest.

Of course, she should’ve known Soul would have trouble processing her death-defying experience.

“You did _what,_ now?”

She sighs. This is proving more difficult than she thought. “Are you even listening?” 

“I’m sorry. It’s kind of a lot to process,” he says, kneading his temples. His face is still flushed from carrying her. “Just… run it by me one more time. The part about the poison, or whatever. Please?”

Maka groans and takes a moment to collect herself. “I told you, Soul,” she enunciates snidely, “it was _in_ me. Was in Jack, too, like he passed it on to me.” Her shoulder stings again, as if called upon. “It felt alive… and it kept saying it could give me power, if only I would just let go.”

Next to her, Soul tenses, inhaling sharply. “Oh yeah?”

She nods, trembling at the memory of how it felt. “I could feel it bleeding into my tech—hell, my cornea implants short circuited. I lost all control, but then… it just vanished. Like my body rejected it, or something. I don’t feel it anymore.”

“So, what you’re saying is you fought it off, kicked it to the curb, that sort of thing?”

“I guess.” Maka really wouldn’t call it victory, considering her mystery snake woman slithered out of her grasp. No name, not even a face. Just a goading promise that they’d see each other again. On a reflex, she squeezes her juice pouch, and the resulting spout of Vitamin-C hitting her in the face does nothing to squash her anger. 

Soul, on the other hand, seems to visibly relax. He doesn’t even poke fun at her for her juice mishap. “Then I say good riddance.”

She hums in response, unsure of how to answer. Her anger dies down at the way he brushes her off. How he can just _move on_ at the drop of a hat, when she can’t, refuses to, is baffling to her. It’s in her blood to find the truth, it’s who she is. It’s who she’ll always be. 

Like mother, like daughter. 

Their conversation drops off as they exit the market together, and the silence is comfortable, welcomed even as she sorts out her thoughts. But she hardly notices how Soul’s jaw tightens, or how he grips her hand… terrified she might let go. 

* * *

Another city block, and they reach their destination: _The Camellia Blossom_. A ground-level dive bar that operates as a sophisticated nod to Japanese culture while masquerading as a cover for her childhood friend’s hacker bat cave. An all-in-one contradiction, much like its owners. It also conveniently doubles as a duplex, fitting two studio apartments over top the bar’s main floor.

On the outside, it shows wear and tear, typical of the ground-level’s Arc District, east side… but on the inside, a glimpse into Maka’s lost heritage on her mother’s side. 

_Home._

They step inside, and her eyes are naturally drawn to all the Japanese antiquities lining the walls, or how the bar counter mimics old wooden Japanese architecture. All authentic, down to the last detail. Taken for granted by its patrons, who wander in out of convenience, or because the woman behind the bar mixes a mean drink (and is easy on the eyes, too).

The blue neon glowing faintly from the seams in the walls is an acquired taste, courtesy of BlackStar wanting to slap his brand somewhere, but it's... _quirky,_ she decides. And so is his loud star memorabilia trying to coexist peacefully with the Japanese art. It sums up his relationship with his co-owner and partner perfectly.

She gazes at the impressive collection of liquor lining the back wall, and then at the crowned jewel above it: a mounted katana. A Nakatsukasa family heirloom. 

“Sorry, we’re closing early tonight,” calls a sweet, feminine voice. The woman it belongs to stands with her back facing the door, polishing a wine glass behind the counter. Tall, beautiful, _filled-out_ —a vague, but accurate way to describe Tsubaki at a glance; or long black hair tied back in a tail, soft blue eyes, and a smile that can light up a room. But below the surface, a heart of gold that will do anything for her friends. 

Maka marches up to the bar and drops her juice pouch on the counter. _“Please_ tell me you have something stronger than this.” 

Behind her, Soul laughs, shortly, before covering it up with his hand. 

Tsubaki twists on her heels to face her. “Oh, Maka! I should’ve known it was-” Her words lodge in her throat as she finally takes in Maka’s disheveled look, the blood staining her clothes. Her eyes widen in maternal-like concern. She grabs Maka’s face by her chin, tipping it to the side, taking a gander at her ripped shoulder. “What happened to you?”

“Oh, you know,” she shrugs out of her friend’s grip, “the usual. Now about that drink.”

“Not so fast,” says Soul, taking her wrist. “One, you’re a baby.”

She growls at that—she’s twenty, not _fifteen_ —and thinks of how that’s never been an issue before, when they’ve either celebrated or wallowed in their miseries in the past.

“Two, your shoulder is fucked up.”

She does have a date with a fuse pen and her torn-up skin, but what’s wrong with a little booze to take the edge off? 

“And three, you need to start making sense, because if you keep this up,” he pauses, taking a breath, “I swear, I’ll have a heart attack before I’m thirty.”

Maka doesn’t think that’s what he meant to say at the end, but ultimately decides not to pry. Her smart mouth is ready to tell him he should swap sleeping in with doing cardio workouts with her in the morning, but, again, she keeps her trap shut. She knows he doesn’t sleep in just to cramp her style or because he’s lazy. No, it’s because of the nightmares he refuses to tell her about. 

“We’re just worried about you, Maka, that’s all,” Tsubaki adds, surprising her. 

Her body slumps against the counter. Life was so much easier when it was just her fighting the monsters. When the only person waiting for her at home was her father, whom she loved to antagonize out of spite. With her friends she just feels guilty. 

“Look, I appreciate the concern. Really, I do, but I’m fine. Not dying,” she says, before emphasizing, “not planning to, either.” Soul lifts a skeptical brow at her, ruffling her feathers a bit. “I’m dead serious.” 

“Hmm,” is all she gets from him in return. 

Tsubaki smiles. “We believe you.” 

After that vote of confidence, Maka decides against telling Tsubaki about her encounter with the snake woman, figuring what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. Too bad she can’t say the same for Soul. He’s too good at unraveling her, making her feel comfortable in her own skin, and that’s why she spilled her guts back at the market. Now she regrets her honesty. 

He tugs on her wrist. “C’mon. Let’s get your shoulder cleaned up.”

Maka shakes her head. “No, I need to see BlackStar first,” she says. “He has to analyze the chip. I have to be there.” 

She needs to know what secrets Jack’s ID chip holds, if there’s anything on it that can help her catch the snake and lead her to the Kishin that nearly killed Soul. Not to mention, the poison that Jack passed on to her that she just barely managed to dispel. 

How did she get rid of it, anyway? It’s still unclear.

“Maka,” he sighs. 

“Just… a quick visit to his man cave, that’s all I’m asking for. _Then_ we can play doctor.”

If her poor choice of words have any effect on him—because boy, do they make her want to curl up in a ball and _die_ —he doesn’t let it show. She doesn’t know if she should feel relieved or disappointed by his indifference, but one thing she does know is that her face feels hot. And, oh no, Tsubaki is giving her a dangerous look. Like she _knows_. Which, she does, sort of. Maybe. The night in question is still foggy if it ever happened.

Meanwhile, Soul just stares at her, at a loss. Then, “Tsu, mind passing this along?” He digs the ID chip out of his pocket and tosses it on the counter. A black, inky substance splatters around it. 

Tsubaki smiles sweetly. No, smugly. “Of course.”

“Thanks.”

Maka nearly gets whiplash looking between them, mouth agape. “Is this what betrayal feels like?” she blurts, as if she doesn’t already know the feeling. To their credit, they don’t humor her with an answer. 

Soul’s gentle tug evolves into him dragging her across the floor, her heels digging in. “At least pretend like you’re mature,” he says. 

She bristles at that, a sharp reply burning at the tip of her tongue. 

“Don’t worry, Maka,” Tsubaki cuts in, just as Soul finds the stairwell. “I’ll make sure he gets it.” She taps near her eye, as if to say, ‘I’ll have him call you’. Her implants are for more than just using her sight, after all. 

As Maka disappears around the corner, she mouths a quick ‘thank you’ before cussing out her partner all the way up to their apartment. 

* * *

“Lose the cloak.” 

Maka doesn’t have much fight left in her—used it all up in her swear-olympics—but figures she can at least intimidate him by squaring her jaw and narrowing her eyes. Let him know that even when she’s down, she isn’t beaten. She’s as stubborn as they come.

 _“Off,”_ he demands, and it rings straight through her. She’s stubborn, but so is he. Apparently, their partnership thrives on this push and pull between them. 

Begrudgingly, Maka begins to strip. She sits on her bed while he kneels on the floor in front of her, watching her every move. It’s nerve wracking how Soul looks at her. Like she, and she alone, sits in the center of his universe. She swallows nervously and shrugs off the cloak, cringing at how it peels away from her shoulder like velcro. She lets it drop to the floor. Then his hands are unbuttoning her blouse with practiced ease, and Maka is flushed, from the tips of her ears down to her chest. 

This routine isn’t new. She’s used to him patching her up, and her patching him up. There aren’t many “boundaries” between them. As you learn to trust someone with your life, keeping your guard up gets harder, becomes redundant. Especially when you share resLink technology that, quite literally, binds your thoughts and feelings to each other.

Sure, in the beginning it was awkward. They lashed out, felt violated, craved privacy; until they accepted each other, and found their rhythm, their resonance. 

But this closeness doesn’t erase her complicated feelings. Her secret affections for her partner, which she’s never felt before, by the way—this kind of attraction, or the warmth curling up in her chest. She’s never been interested in anyone like this before; never felt like her heart was racing to the beat of _his_ voice, whether he’s whispering “idiot” under his breath or screaming for her to keep fighting, to never quit. She is unspeakably tone deaf, but her heart sings for him like it has perfect pitch.

These feelings are all so new, so corny, so _scary_ , that it’s bound to blow up in her face—not to mention destroy their comfortable existence as partners and best friends, which she’s grown disgustingly dependent on _._ Dependent on him. So, she clams up and hopes for the best. For the sake of their partnership, she tells herself. 

He moves her bra strap out of the way, and she hisses. “Sorry,” he whispers, making a face. “You mind turning around? It’ll give me a better angle.”

 _Gladly,_ she thinks, turning her back to him. Easier to avoid awkward eye contact this way.

She sits cross legged, facing his bed that’s only two steps away from hers—a studio apartment debacle they dealt with early on in their partnership. There once was a solid attempt at hanging a sheet between the beds to feign separation, but that only lasted a year, maybe two. Five years together now and separation is the last thing on their minds.

As gently as he can, Soul pulls out the gauze pads one by one. Then, he pours rubbing alcohol on the wound, and she bites down a scream, her voice strangled. He quietly apologizes and picks and prods, cleaning, before he reaches for something on the nightstand. She hears a click and knows what’s next before he speaks.

“You know the drill,” he says, and she can feel how the fuse pen hovers over her shoulder, the tip crackling with anticipation. “It’s gonna sting, burn, whatever. You wanna bite down on something?”

Maka shakes her head. 

“Always gotta be a badass,” he sighs, and her pride tingles in her chest. “Suit yourself.”

It feels like she’s being branded, painfully slow, as he engraves a line from one end to the other to sear her skin back together. She tries not to scream, tries not flinch. She can’t help but remember how Soul’s chest was so torn up, so pulled apart, that a fuse pen wouldn’t work on him. He was too… _open._

“So,” he says, casually, like he’s not stitching her up with a tiny blow torch. “What was up with you earlier, talking to the Kishin like that?”

Maka stares down at her lap, shocked. Are they really talking about this now? She is on _literal_ fire, for the most part, and _now_ is when he wants to talk? 

“Did you really expect him to talk back? Like, actually give you all the answers you’re looking for. A freakin’ _Kishin.”_

Oh, the point is she can’t talk back. Not yet. She’s forced to listen, grinding her teeth together as the fuse pen plots a slow course over the slope of her shoulder. 

“I know you want to find who’s responsible for all this,” his breath tickles her ear as he speaks, “I know you want her really bad. But it isn’t worth your life. You hear me? She’s not worth it, Maka.”

But if her theory is true, this woman is responsible for the abnormalities they’ve been seeing in Kishin lately—heightened aggression, deformities, _black blood_. She thinks of Jack’s plea to see his family again, a vulnerability easily exploited. It must be easy for her to prey on the weak and the desperate. For a split second, Maka wonders about _the_ Kishin—if they were coerced, used, just like Jack—but quickly dismisses that thought. 

Some choose power for the sake of power, for nefarious reasons. Not everyone is innocent. The voices that fill her head are anything but innocent. And there’s no doubt in Maka’s mind that this woman, this _snake_ , deserves a special place in hell. If it takes her life to put her there, so be it. 

_Stupid, stupid girl._

She wants to tear out the voices’ throat _,_ if that’s what it takes to make it stop. Make them _shut up._

_“I… I don't know how to deal with that.”_

She doesn’t either. 

“Maka?”

She startles slightly, realizing her skin is singed, but no longer being burned. The fuse pen has finished its voyage and now sits idly on her nightstand. Maka blinks, trying to refocus. She really needs to kick this habit of losing herself in her thoughts _in_ the ass, and fast. Before she really gets herself killed. 

“You catch any of that?” Soul gripes from behind her, knowing full well that she didn’t. At least not all of it. “Or were you too busy putzing around in la la land.”

Her answer is short, clipped. “Not worth my life, got it.” 

She rotates on her butt to face him, eyes hard, daring him to pick a fight—but he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, Soul rises to his feet and runs a hand through his hair, still sopping wet from the rain. Only now does Maka feel disgustingly soaked to the bone. The tear in her cloak ruined its shielding technology, its water resistance. At least his jacket held up. His hair is his own fault for forgetting to wear a hat or a hood like her. 

“I call dibs on the shower,” he announces, and she’s ready to protest when he tacks on, “gotta let my handiwork smolder a little. Needs to cool down on its own before you get it wet, or it ruins the binding. You know that, bookworm.” 

Fuse pen technology was fickle and sensitive like that. 

She relents, trying not to scowl at his sound reasoning. “Just… don’t use all the hot water.”

“I make no such promises.” He grins in her direction, all the tension between them dissipating, before he’s met face-first by her pillow. 

“Water hog,” she says around a smile, dodging his poorly returned pillow. 

Soul waves his hand in the air, dismissing her. Pretending like he’s too cool for their childish back-and-forth. He then throws a clean towel over his shoulder and disappears into the bathroom, kicking the door closed behind him, but not before grumbling half-heartedly, “such a royal pain in my _ass.”_

* * *

Maka waits until she hears the water running, then for his music—classic, smooth jazz, his “chill out” music—to hum out of their bathroom speakers before she makes her move. Swaddling herself in a blanket, for the cold and to cover up, she activates her implants. Not her sight, per se, but its comm link. BlackStar’s caller ID blinks across her vision. She feels a slight vibration behind her eyes, simulating a ring. Her toes curl into the carpet while she waits for him to answer. 

“Maks, s’that you?”

Her face falls at the sight of his butt blocking her display. “Wrong screen,” she all but growls. 

His resounding, “Oh, shit _,_ my bad!” is followed by a lot of rummaging around. She listens to him kick energy cans and take-out containers out of the way, before his shock of bright blue hair and blue-lit face finally show up on-screen.

He sits in a suspended swivel chair surrounded by holo monitors, looking out of place in his tight muscle shirt and white track pants. His muscle enhancers ripple across his forearms like circuitry underneath his skin. They strengthen his muscle tissue regeneration, making him stronger; perfect for combat and to get those _gains,_ he said after convincing her to "level up" her own power stats. 

He’s not what you’d call your average tech guy. Not by a long shot. He’s more like… a macho-hacker. 

“Huh. Nice blanket burrito.”

She hugs the blanket closer. “You scan the chip yet?”

“Yeah, yeah, I scanned it. Looked a lot like the others.” The anomaly she’s been tracking, it shows up as an odd blip in their tech’s code. “Could’ve done without the sticky goop all over it, y’know. Took a half hour to get that shit off my hands.” 

“Focus,” she breathes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Did you find anything else?”

He smirks, his cockiness palpable through the screen. “I think our boy Jack encrypted a memory in his chip. Weirdest shit I’ve ever seen—didn’t know upgrades like this even _existed_ —but I think I can crack it. S’running through my algorithm right now, buuuuuuut,” he holds up a finger, anticipating how she’ll speak up, “I won’t have any results for ya for _at least_ twenty-four hours.” 

“I… can’t you work faster?” She's so close, but again she lands on _stop,_ when she’s more than ready to pass _go._ Doesn’t he get how time sensitive this is? The longer they stay in the dark, the more time her mystery woman has to plot, to take advantage of the helpless and the criminally corrupt. Not knowing what she’s planning next is killing Maka. 

_“I suppose the experiment is over… for now,”_ her voice taunts. 

Is it really all just an experiment to her? Hell, if she knows.

BlackStar shrugs. “Can’t rush perfection, pleb. ‘Sides, isn’t this good news? Compared to the, I don’t know… _jack shit_ we had before. Thought you’d be a little more appreciative.”

Maka blows out a puff of hot air, trying to _let it go,_ like everyone wants. “Sorry. That’s really good work, thanks.” 

“Didn’t say that was all I had,” he says cheekily. 

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Cut the crap and spill it, Star.”

“So, I ran into this guy at Sid’s gym—” Maka groans, thinking he’s about to share one of his conquests with her—“a real stick-up-his-ass type, all proper and shit, but then he—mister buck-twenty soaking wet—bench presses over two hundred and I’m like _whoa,_ dude’s legit.”

“Get to the point,” she mumbles, annoyed.

“Point is, he asked for you by _name,_ Ms. ‘Angel of Death’. Said he had intel you’d want. Something about the Kishin anomaly kingpin you’ve been looking for.”

She’s on her feet now, completely invigorated. “What does he know? Who is he?”

BlackStar leans back in his seat, relishing in being the center of attention. “He calls himself ‘The Kid’. He’s in our line of work.” Another freelancer, she thinks. “And he said he’d meet with you at Joe’s Café at 8 o’clock tomorrow.” He pauses, scratches his chin. “He was really specific about the time. If you’re late, he might have a stroke.”

She looks at him, puzzled, and he just sighs. “Be punctual like you always are, _nerd,_ and it won’t be a problem.” 

Her mind is already made up. “I’ll be there.”

This could be the big break she’s been hoping for. If she can’t speed up BlackStar’s program running Jack’s chip, she can at least do this: meet with ‘The Kid’ and figure out what he knows about her mastermind and her Kishin experiments. For all she knows, he might have a lead on her Kishin, too. 

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” he says, clapping his hands together. Then his expression turns dark, mischievous. “Y’know, for all my ‘good work’, it’s only fair that you do me a solid, like say… snag me his digits.” 

Her eye twitches. “I’m not going to be an accessory to one of your _conquests_ , BlackStar,” she grits out, a little flustered. “Unlike you, I’ve got some dignity.” 

“Hey, just because you’re sexually repressed, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be.”

All joking aside, his words land a lot harder than he intended. As if she doesn’t already know how broken she is. But really, why should she care about something as trivial, as _pointless_ as sex? She’s lived this long without it. Hell, she has more important things to think about, like finding her snake and the Kishin who hurt Soul. She has priorities. 

In spite of her little internal pep talk, her nails bite into her palms. “Fuck you.” 

He seems to realize his mistake, but too late, as per usual. “Wait, don’t hang up!” His arms flail obnoxiously. “I gotta show you something. Please?”

“Fine,” she grumbles, humoring him. It’s not like he meant to hurt her feelings. “What is it?”

He grins and tilts his head to give her a profile shot, tapping a small blinking device on his— _oh no._

Her eyes grow wide. “Stein did _not_.”

“Oh, yes he _did._ You and Soul aren’t the only ones who're hot shit. Tsu and I are hooked up, and ready to hit the streets again.” 

Maka can’t hide her shock. ResLink technology isn’t easy to install; it takes a lot of psychological conditioning, getting to know your partner inside and out, before you can even consider bonding yourselves so invasively with a neural link. Tsubaki is a weapon like Soul, albeit a flexible one, bioengineered as a part of her family’s inheritance, her birthright. BlackStar could only wield her before because of his strong will but not efficiently; he would never master her enchanted sword without a resLink. 

Honestly, Maka never thought she’d see the day someone as bullheaded as BlackStar could maintain a steady resonance with anyone. It has to be Tsubaki’s patience. Yeah, that’s got to be it.

“I’m… happy for you?” 

“Aw,” he coos, “I’m touched. It’s like you’re not even bitter about me joining your little resLink club.” 

She flips him the bird. 

He laughs haughtily. “There she is!”

“Who are you talking to?”

Her body goes rigid, eyes flicking up to meet her partner’s. Only, the journey there is a slow one, beginning at the towel falling low on his hips. A waft of steam glistens against his skin. She trails up his hip bone, wanders over his abs, his pecs, traces the hollow of his throat, counts the stubble on his chin. 

“Um, the camera’s flipped,” BlackStar says, bewildered, before whistling in her ear. “Am I witnessing your sexual awakening right now? Shit, I’m honored.”

Maka blinks, disconnects the call. Her face is boiling red. To snap out of it, she redirects her attention to Soul’s scar, the crooked stitched line cutting him in half from shoulder to hip. In her little check-out session she adamantly ignored it. Made it invisible. Her pulse quickens, her guilt churns, but the sight of it grounds her, reminds her of what matters. 

She inhales, waits five seconds, and exhales, letting it go.

Soul eyes her warily. “Are you going to answer, or…?” 

Her eyes fall to the floor as she brushes past him, swiping a towel off the rack. “Got a lead. I’ll catch you up tomorrow.”


End file.
